We spent the weekend in rural Sussex, a well-heeled swathe of countryside south of London. It allowed Anu to play her favourite game of ‘spot the brown face’. That used to be her principal pastime when visiting my family in North Yorkshire (my mother told the neighbours that my wife was an Indian princess, in a freewheeling translation of her caste status). In Sussex too, Britain’s cultural diversity is well hidden. Until, that is, you get to good old Brighton—a seaside resort with an old-fashioned pier, a gay scene, an ornately oriental pavilion, and a profusion of South Asian daytrippers. The cadences of Hindi and Gujarati could be heard among the ice cream stalls; snatches of Punjabi and Tamil echoed around the dodgem rides.
A few days earlier, Bengali was the language of the streets as I did my London walking tour for visiting friends from Delhi. I love strolling round the byways and cul-de-sacs that time and fashion forgot. That’s how we ended up touring the side streets of London’s self-proclaimed Banglatown in Spitalfields, exploring Angel Alley and its hidden-away anarchist bookshop, and ending up at the splendid Sunday morning Columbia Road flower market. Forget the Tower and Buckingham Palace—the real London is out there, just take to your feet and find it.
Happily, my guests were indulgent to my whimsical route. They are also adventurous eaters—unlike so many visitors who seek the sanctuary of dal and sabzi. We ate Ethiopian one night, and on Brick Lane—having decided to abjure the temptation of Bangladeshi cuisine—ended up at a Swedish restaurant. (All meatballs and fish, in case you are wondering). One of my promenaders hailed from Calcutta and was intrigued to see street names, shop signs and ‘no ball games’ notices in Bengali script. He wanted to see if he could understand the Sylheti dialect which is Spitalfields’ second language. Yes, a quick chat with a shopkeeper, a second-generation immigrant, was comfortable enough—the local Bengali was a touch rustic, but within conversational reach.
